he draws the curtains in the living room
where we eat and hide. behind, the light
plays tricks and I can still see your figure
receding. I say the ghosts have gone
quiet, bleached blue. please forgive me.
I mean to say the scene reminds me
of fog veiling the ocean in winter,
when people are home, their faces pasty azure
from the glow of the television,
and they are turned into themselves,
lapping over and under, over and under,
dreaming in bodies like theirs but
still and dead. the jetty is slick with rain.
a child’s sandstorm, winding
around itself. I do not know if this gets
closer to the truth, how your leaving
has never left. I say that I have
recovered, for to confess is to return to
seeing in front of me nothing, only
the quilted ebbs of the waves,
falling under and over themselves,
in terrible infinity.
Cover art: “Nowhere To Be” by Siri Stensberg